Of A Cold, Loving Embrace
by lioness84
Summary: There are those who would call my death a tragedy: dead at eighteen, betrayed by those I loved most. But they couldn't be any further from the truth. My life was the tragedy—and what followed after was something else entirely. ON HIATUS
1. Beyond the Veil

**A/N: For the first time, Antoinetta Marie tells her own story in her own words. This was an idea that came to me as I was developing her background for another story, and it kind of expanded into one of its own.**

**This ties in with the other two Oblivion stories I have published - I like continuity. It can stand alone, but of course I recommend checking out the others. I don't think it will turn out to be terribly long, but it'll probably be a decent-sized story before the end. I hope you all enjoy it.**

* * *

Of A Cold, Loving Embrace

Beyond the Veil

I have waited here long. Cold, stiff, ever watchful, and waiting. Always waiting, languishing in the arms of our Mother. For this is the realm of Sithis you have stumbled across, and this is _our_ domain: the domain of those who served our Dread Father in life—and of those who were claimed by his servants.

I know that I am dead. I have been dead a long time, or so I believe. Time, I think, is something that doesn't quite flow the same way here. An era may pass in your world, or perhaps merely five minutes. It's all the same here. In fact, I'm not so sure time exists at all. Not anymore.

There's a question on your lips, one you've been musing over ever since I first mentioned Sithis. There are two kinds of souls here: that, you understand—but which was I? Was I a heartless assassin, or an innocent victim?

In truth, it was the former. Yes, I was an assassin: taker of lives, harvester of souls. But before you get that look on your face, let me tell you of an impossible truth I learned long ago. Not all assassins are heartless, and not all victims are innocent.

Oh, I don't mean to absolve myself, of course. I tell no lies; I know what I've done. But I've come to terms with it. I'm hardened—yes. Evil—perhaps. Callous—to be certain. But heartless? Never.

I may be a mere shade before you now, but in life, I was a _person_. Human. A Breton, to be exact—if that specific racial category still has meaning. I was more than just the kills I made. Even assassins are not without emotion. I had hopes, I had dreams, just like any other. I knew love, and I knew loss. I was _very _well acquainted with the latter, and even here, beyond the end of all things, I can still feel its ache.

Perhaps that is why I am still here: a ghost of my former self, yet intact, when so many others have completely weathered away. Nothing lasts in the Void, you see—not sentiment, not attachment, not memory—only the darkness and the terrible, eternal power of the Dread Father. But I endure.

I can't explain why I linger here. Some curse, perhaps: that I was fated to go on _remembering_. For it's not just my tragic memories—my most joyous memories have come to pain me as deeply as my darkest ones. I told you I was no stranger to loss, and Fate—Fate is _never _kind. But without those bright memories—those stolen blissful moments—things on the other side may have turned out _quite_ differently.

Nothing lasts in the Void—yet I can see it all so clearly. The walls of the Sanctuary rising up around me. The sharp scents of wild herbs, brewing into the deadliest of poisons. The feel of a dagger in my palm, a gloved hand wrapped around mine; a low, silken voice whispering in my ear. Yes, I can see it all, even the endless expanse of tundra bordered by snowy mountains beneath a boiling dark sky, the place where it all began…


	2. Spooky Little Girl

**A/N: Just a quick warning: there's a scene toward the end of this chapter that contains animal/child abuse. Read at your own risk.**

* * *

Spooky Little Girl

I was born in the north country, where sparse, prickly vegetation is dotted with juniper trees beneath the craggy shadow of the mountains. Where grey skies loom overhead for half the year, and heavy snowfalls persist the other half. I know the land, but I can barely remember what our house looked like. I can, however, still see the nightshade plants scattered throughout our garden. I don't know why such a toxic plant was permitted to grow unhindered, but for some reason, I believe it had something to do with my mother. That may not be entirely accurate, of course, for I didn't just have one mother—I had two. There was the woman who birthed me, only to pass from this world, moments after I entered. And there was the Night Mother.

How can I explain the Night Mother? Sithis is easy—the Dread Father, collector of souls. Sithis is darkness, Sithis is emptiness, Sithis is the Void. But the Night Mother—the Night Mother is different. Born eras ago as a mortal woman, she is both the founder of our order and our direct link to Sithis. She smiles upon her favored daughters, and we live to please her. It is her embrace that we rest in here in the Void. Is it so strange, then, that I should come to think of her as my true mother?

But although my memories are hazy regarding my mother, I can still remember my father. Even those memories are faint though; just of a man with a thick blond beard and a merry laugh, and of stories of adventure told by the fire deep in the night. The clearest memory I have of my father, however, is of the day he was buried.

I remember that day because the sun was shining—a rare occurrence in the north. But the wind was anything but rare, whipping past and taking the priest's words along with it. I stood at the graveside wearing a too-large black dress, a hand-me-down from my cousin Brigitte, whose hand I tightly clutched. She couldn't have been more than a few years older than me, but she'd appointed herself my guardian, and was taking her responsibility very seriously.

"Stand back, Annie," she said, pulling me back from the edge of my father's grave. But I shook my head, causing my already-messy blond braids to come further undone.

"I want to see Papa," I insisted, straining against her hold. My four-year-old brain still lacked the ability to comprehend death, but I understood that my father was in that pit—and that this would be the last time I would see him.

The news had come several days ago that the wreckage from his ship had been found, but I hadn't understood until Tania had sat me down and explained everything. That my father's ship was a good one, but the sea had a mind of its own, and even the best ships could not hold out against rocks. And that Papa had gone to be with Mama in Aetherius, but they had found him, and would bring him home so that we could say goodbye one last time. I'd cried, but when my tears had dried up, I'd nodded and told Tania that I understood—but in reality, I thought my father was standing down in the bottom of the hole—and I didn't understand why Brigitte wouldn't let me go talk to him.

So instead, I pouted, crossing my arms over my chest and refusing to look at Brigitte. She had switched her hold to my upper arm, and whenever I would sneak glances at her to see if she was really paying attention, her grip would tighten. I had just decided to stomp on her foot as hard as I could and dart forward, when the priest finished speaking, and the adults surrounding me began to fall into a line, filing past the hole and tossing handfuls of dirt in.

"Come on." Brigitte pulled me into the line. "We have to pay our final respects to your papa." Respects? I didn't understand. They were throwing dirt on him, of all things! Papa would be so upset. Whenever he returned from sea, all grimy and salt-stained, he always insisted on immediately taking a bath. Even if he had to leave to go be with Mama, he would never stand for this. Any minute, he would climb out of the hole and make these people stop. They'd be sorry they ever crossed him. I smiled at little at the thought as Brigitte and I waited in line.

But when we reached the edge of the pit, I was disappointed to look down and see nothing but a wooden box. "That's not Papa." I began to tug anxiously on my cousin's skirt. "Brigitte, Papa's not there."

"It's because he's dead, Annie." Brigitte stretched her hand over the pit and opened it, allowing the dirt to sprinkle over the box. "They just put his body in the box so we can say goodbye to him."

I mimicked Brigitte, picking up a handful of dirt and tossing it over the edge. But I was frowning as I did so. Papa wasn't at home and he wasn't at sea—but he wasn't here, either. Where was he, then? Tania said he had gone to Aetherius, and that was where Mama was—but Mama wasn't here. Mama wasn't _anywhere_. So did what did that mean for Papa? I remember how the confusion haunted me the rest of the ceremony, following me home from the graveyard. Although I didn't know it at the time, I had just experienced my first taste of death.

* * *

When we arrived home in the afternoon, I headed straight to Tania's room, hoping she could tell me more about where Papa had gone. But instead, I found her sitting in the middle of the floor, her belongings strewn everywhere and her trunk sitting open beside her. I stood in the doorway, fists perched on my hips as I surveyed the sight before me.

"You made a _mess_, Tania," I said reproachfully, my words heavy with all the force of a four-year-old's disapproval. "You have to clean it up." I kept my own room tidy, my clothes carefully placed in the wardrobe and my dolls neatly lining the shelves.

Tania looked up at me with a faint smile, then pushed up off the floor, ruffling my hair before picking up an apron and beginning to fold it. "Afraid it doesn't matter much now, Annie," she said. She sounded sad, and I wondered if it was about Papa. "I've been let go. I have to be gone by evening."

"You're leaving?" Somehow, the idea of Tania being gone was worse of a shock than Papa. Papa was always leaving—the sea was "his calling," Tania said—but I couldn't remember ever being apart from Tania. "You can't go! Who's going to stay with me?"

"I have to." She tossed a pair of shoes into the trunk. "I was under your papa's employment, but now that he's gone, your aunt's in charge, and she says I've got to go. She'll be taking care of you now."

"But where will you go?" I could feel my face getting hot, and I knew I was about to cry. A sudden, horrible thought occurred to me. "You're not going to Aetherius too, are you?" At the idea of Tania being gone—_really_ gone—the tears began to well up in my eyes.

Tania's eyes widened a little as she saw me start to cry. "No!" She crossed the room in two quick steps, and then her arms were wrapped around me, my face buried in her apron. "No, Annie. Sovngarde won't call me for a long time. No, I'm just going back home, back to Markarth. I'll stay with my family for a while until I can find work."

"Let me go with you!" I pulled away and eagerly looked up at Tania. She had told me all about her home city of Markarth, a mysterious place built by the Dwemer, filled with secrets and intrigue. "I want to see the rivers run with silver and blood!"

Tania winced. "Maybe I shouldn't have told you that," she muttered. She gave a long sigh. "But you can't come with me, Annie. You have family here." She stepped away and began gathering the last of her belongings.

"But Tania," I protested, beginning to feel desperate. "I don't _like_ them as much as I like you." She placed a few books in her trunk and slammed the lid shut, clicking the lock into place.

"You don't _know_ them," she admonished. "At least give them a chance. Brigitte seems nice." She began dragging her trunk to the doorway, pausing to give me one last hug. "Hang in there, Annie," she said. "You're a tough girl. You'll be just fine." And then she was gone, and I was alone, except for the sound of Tania's trunk thudding down the stairs.

I sat in my window and mournfully waved goodbye to Tania until the carriage that came to collect her disappeared around the corner. And after that, I cried, facedown in my bed clutching the doll she'd made for me until Brigitte came to fetch me for dinner. I'd sat up in bed and scrubbed my face clean, and didn't shed another tear afterward.

* * *

Tania was right; although she was bossy, Brigitte was nice, and we became great friends that winter. My uncle was a quiet, nervous little man, and although I didn't spend much time around him, he seemed decent enough. My Aunt Claudette, on the other hand, was very strict and quick-tempered, and it didn't take me long to decide that I didn't like her—at all.

I would spend my days with her, though, tagging along after her around the house performing chores and working on lessons. But when Brigitte came home from school in the afternoon, we would head outside to play, and the adventures would begin. Brigitte had a wonderful imagination, and at her urging, sticks became swords, icicles became scepters, and snow became the elements from which our palaces and subjects alike were formed. We were ice queens, and our domain stretched from there to the sea—or at least to the edge of the garden.

We also spent a fair amount of time playing with my cat. Her name was Tabby, and Papa had rescued her from the docks when I'd been barely more than a baby. The next winter, much to the delight of Brigitte and I, the gardener informed us that Tabby was expecting kittens.

Although Tabby took refuge in the stables when the winter winds grew too frigid, she was still an outdoor cat. And although spring was well on its way, Brigitte and I worried about the kittens being exposed to the still-blustery weather. So one afternoon, when my aunt was busy arguing with a courier, Brigitte and I snuck Tabby inside and hid her in a corner of the pantry.

Tabby was well into her pregnancy at this point, and she didn't seem to mind having her adventurous ways curbed in the slightest. She happily settled into the nest we made for her behind a sack of potatoes, and as her belly got rounder, Brigitte and I became more excited.

Then came the morning I snuck into the pantry to discover three blind little balls of still-damp fur. It was all I could do to contain my excitement as Tabby looked proudly on, even allowing me to wriggle behind the potatoes and gently stroke the kittens with a single finger. Brigitte could barely stifle her squeal as I whispered the news to her when she arrived home that afternoon, and we both immediately rushed to the pantry.

In retrospect, of course, we were reckless. We wanted to spend every spare moment with the kittens, and we did just about that. We should have known my aunt would grow suspicious, but in our excitement, the thought didn't even cross our minds. So we abandoned caution and grew sloppy, not realizing my aunt was watching.

On that fateful afternoon, Brigitte and I were sprawled on the floor of the pantry, playing with the kittens. They were several weeks old by now; their eyes had opened, they had begun to eat solid food, and they were growing more rambunctious every day—which was very quickly becoming a problem. Perhaps what tipped my aunt off in the first place was that Brigitte and I had suddenly grown very helpful in the kitchen, immediately springing to volunteer every time she needed something from the pantry. We had little choice, though; the entire pantry had become the kittens' personal playground. They chased each other around the perimeter and attempted to scale the shelves—and there was always the risk that if we opened the door, one of them would dart out.

We were so intent on arguing over what to name them that we didn't hear footsteps approaching. Without warning, the door swung open, and my aunt loomed over us. "What on Nirn could you two possibly—" She began to speak, but her voice immediately cut off as she caught sight of the kittens. We stared up at her, petrified with terror as the fury began to build in her eyes.

"Mother." Brigitte was the first to recover her senses, quickly leaping to her feet. "Mother, it's not what it looks like, I'm sorry, I—" She was cut off as my aunt's hand lashed out, striking her across the face.

"I don't believe my eyes." My aunt's voice was crackling with wrath. "For weeks, the two of you have been skulking around, and _this_ is what you've been hiding? Keeping these filthy animals in the same place we keep our _food_, for gods' sakes?"

"No, Mother, they're not dirty, and we pick up after them—"

"Enough!" my aunt snapped. "I don't want to hear any excuses. What have you been feeding them, hmm? We can't _afford _to feed four extra mouths. What you did was stupid, irresponsible, and just plain wrong." She stormed over to the back door and threw it open. "Raul!" she yelled.

"Mother, we're sorry." Brigitte's tone had a note of pleading, and somehow, that scared me to my very core. "We'll take them right back outside, and they won't be any trouble, I promise, Mother, _please_." Brigitte's face had gone white with fear.

"_Raul!_" my aunt shrieked again, and this time, the gardener appeared in the doorway.

"Yes, ma'am?" he asked wearily. My aunt pointed to the open pantry door, where the biggest of the kittens, an orange tabby, could be seen struggling to climb over my leg.

"These cats need to be disposed of. Take them out to the river."

"_No!_" Brigitte's voice rose shrilly. "No, Mother, please, you can't, _please…_"

"Silence, Brigitte!" My aunt's hand twitched upward, and my cousin shrank back.

"You sure about that, ma'am?" Raul was glancing uneasily between my aunt and Brigitte.

"Yes!" My aunt stomped back over to pantry, snatched an empty sack from a hook inside the door and thrust it in his direction.

"Yes, ma'am." And he took the sack and stepped toward the pantry.

"_No!_" Raul didn't even budge as my weight barreled harmlessly into him, but I clung to him just the same, beating him with my fists as hard as I could.

"_Antoinetta! Enough!_" my aunt's voice shrieked, and suddenly there were claws of iron locked around my arms, dragging me away. I could only struggle, screaming, as Raul scooped up the mewing kittens and unceremoniously dumped them into the sack.

"The mother, too," my aunt called, and I struggled harder than ever.

"_No, not Tabby!_" Poor Tabby's eyes were wide with indignation as she was hauled up by the scruff of her neck and dropped in the sack as well. My shrieks turned unintelligible as Raul disappeared out the door, and I managed to twist an arm free and punch my aunt square in the jaw. As she recoiled, I broke free and ran for the door.

I made it halfway across the garden before she caught up with me, still screaming like a banshee as she wrestled me into submission. Through tear-blurred eyes, I could see Raul picking up stones from the edge of the river.

"_Let go of me_!" I howled, but I dissolved into sobs as Raul threw the sack, and it instantly disappeared under the surface.

My aunt released her hold on me for the briefest of seconds, only to spin me around, but I managed to scratch her face and once again break free.

I charged straight to the river, not hesitating for even the briefest of seconds. The icy water was a shock as I plunged into it, but I doggedly struggled forward against the current. "_Tabby!_" I wailed. I dove beneath the surface, flailing out with my arms, but the water was too murky to see through, and my lungs began to burn. I surfaced, gasping for air, but as I submerged again, something locked around my waist and dragged me to the surface.

I twisted around to see a grim-faced Raul had gotten a hold of me. "Let me go! Let me go!" I shrilled. "Tabby!" But it was too late. Raul carted me back to the shore, where my furious aunt was waiting. I swung at her as she approached, but I saw stars as her own blow snapped my head sideways.

"Stop that," she hissed as she took hold of me again, dragging me back toward the house "You should be ashamed of yourself."

"_I hate you!_" My shriek had gone ragged. "You _killed_ Tabby, and I _hate_ you! I wish _you _would die!" This time, there was a crunching sound, and something thick and metallic-smelling filled my nose.

"You ungrateful little brat." My aunt gripped a handful of my hair as she dragged me into the house. "I've taken you in and cared for you as my own and this is how you repay me?" She threw open the door to the pantry and threw me inside. "You will stay here until morning. Think about what you've done. Pray for forgiveness." And the door was slammed shut behind me, the click of the latch following.

I was shivering in my wet clothes, but a rage the likes of which my six-year-old self had never before known was bubbling up inside me, searing through my veins. I didn't know what I was supposed to be praying for. I didn't even know who I was supposed to be praying _to_. Tania had taught me about Shor, about Kyne, about Talos, but in the end, the words that poured from me were directed toward no deity in particular. But I prayed.

I prayed that Tabby and her litter would crawl out of the river and take revenge on my aunt. I prayed that they would chew her apart, that they would tear her with their claws. I prayed that she would suffer. I prayed that she would die.

No ghostly cats came in the night, of course, and in the morning, my aunt came down to let me out and send me upstairs for a bath. Later that day, we went to see a healer about my broken nose, and my aunt prattled on about how my cousin always played too rough, while I sat sullenly glowering at her, not even bothering to call her out.

The watery sun still rose and set, the city continued on in its familiar rhythm, and I went back to chores and lessons. But things had changed—and it wasn't just that Brigitte and I no longer played together. _I _had changed. Despite my young age, I had reached out and touched the darkness for the first time. The rage had cooled to a simmer, but it lingered there beneath the surface, out of sight, out of mind. And although I didn't yet realize it, my prayers had been heard.


	3. Silence Dies

**A/N: Hello, everyone! Sorry I've been so lazy about updating, but I've finished my other story, so this is my sole project at the moment. Updates should be fairly more frequent now :)**

* * *

Silence Dies

Two more things had changed by autumn. The first was that Brigitte was gone: my aunt had sent her off to finishing school in Evermore. The weeks beforehand were a flurry of activity; Brigitte had to have a whole new wardrobe made, and my aunt constantly lectured her on the importance of making connections and the risk of embarrassing the family—in high volumes at all hours of the day and night. By Hearthfire, she was on her way, and despite it being her first time away from home, I could swear the look on her face as the carriage rattled down the street was one of relief, not apprehension. The second change was that I had started school.

Later, when I would speak to others about their school experiences, the answers followed a fairly predictable pattern. They learned how to read, how to write, history, basics of magic, the best ways to smuggle discreet weapons (I knew several Shadowscales—more on that later). But this was High Rock in the height of the Empire, and we were Bretons. On the first day, twelve of us traipsed into the classroom and sat at our desks while our teacher handed out daggers. Our task? To prick a finger and heal the resulting wound. Let me remind you that we were six.

That was the way of things, and we didn't question it. Magic is something instinctual to a Breton, something that should come as naturally as breathing. Life was harsh, and we had to be prepared. Simple basics of language and arithmetic were something we were supposed to have already learned at home; whoever fell behind was left behind. Only the strongest—the best prepared, the most well-equipped—would survive; this was something we all understood, even at six.

But if those stringent standards weren't enough to motivate us, out teacher was. An Altmer with a frizzy white mane and bulging eyes, he would stalk the rows of our desks barking commands in a voice bordering on a shriek. We called him the Master, and for the first several years, we lived in constant terror of him. By the time we were about nine, however, he had become a running joke. During our breaks, as we gathered out in the garden, a casual passerby might hear us loudly mocking him to a string of constant giggles. This, I'm ashamed to admit, was largely my doing.

Understand, though: after years living with my aunt, very little intimidated me anymore. Yes, The Master resembled a wraith. Yes, he was prone to raging fits of near-hysterics when presented with anything less than perfection. Yes, he was unafraid to let us know exactly what he thought of our performance. But he had ever raised a hand against any of us—which was a constant threat with my aunt, although I hadn't required any trips to a healer since the kitten incident.

My fearlessness had made me a source of admiration among the other girls. In the complex social hierarchies of children, I ranked quite close to the top. But I was never the reigning queen—that title belonged to Carolara.

As much as my classmates feared the Master, I think they feared Carolara even more. Because although the Master's authority disappeared once we stepped out of the classroom, Carolara's did not. She had some noble title—the daughter of the Queen's second cousin twice removed, I think, or something similar—and she had the attitude to match it. The school's garden was her kingdom, and she ruled it with an iron fist.

In some ways, it was similar to the old games Brigitte and I had used to play. However, instead of gallant knights and swashbuckling adventurers, we were Carolara's ladies-in-waiting. Instead of slaying trolls, the other girls would bob around and curtsy while I braided her hair.

This pattern could have continued nicely until graduation, but for that one fateful afternoon. It was toward the end of the school year, and spring had arrived at long last. Weak sunshine became common in the mornings, but strengthened by afternoon. Plants sprouted to life, and the few species of songbirds that made their way this far north began to make their music. On the first truly warm day, we were gathered at our usual spot by the fountain, when we heard a cry from the corner of the garden. Our heads all immediately swiveled in that direction, and we saw Aurnie hurrying toward us.

Let me explain Aurnie. If Carolara was at the top of the social hierarchy, Aurnie was most decidedly at the bottom. She was the poorest of my classmates; her clothing was always sporting worn spots and frayed hems, and the lunch she brought was meager. Her hair was often disheveled, her nose was always running, and she had a narrow, pinched nose and a set of eyes too big for her face. She was frequently the object of Carolara's scorn, and in the cruel, cowardly way of children, I said nothing—deep down too afraid of Carolara to stand up for her. But despite it all, Aurnie Hawkston was about to alter the course of my destiny.

"Carolara," she wheezed as she approached. Aurnie also had a breathing problem—another detail Carolara used to mock her incessantly. "Oh, Carolara, you have to come here, you have to see." In all honesty, I don't know why Aurnie would dare to approach her—much less address the queen directly. But for the first time in her life, Aurnie had some interesting information—and judging from the notes of fear lingering in her tone, I think she thought it would be just enough to curry favor with the queen.

"I don't _think_ so." Despite the fact that she was perched on the edge of the fountain and Aurnie awkwardly loomed over her, Carolara still managed to look down her nose at the other girl. "Now can you move? You're standing in my light," she said pointedly, tilting her face up to the sunlight as the other girls tittered. Aurnie backed several feet away, looking distinctly uncomfortable, but she doggedly persisted.

"You have to come here," she repeated. "You have to see it. I think it's dead." That got Carolara's attention.

"_What's_ dead?" she asked sharply. She abruptly stood, and the rest of us followed suit. Aurnie swallowed nervously.

"It's…it's a little bird," she stammered, "and it's hurt. Really hurt. It's not moving, but I thought I saw some trace residuals when I tried to detect life…" Allow me to point out for a moment that despite her lack of social skills, Aurnie was smart. Smarter than all of us, in fact. She would eventually outdo us all; although that would inadvertently lead to her demise. I've met her—_here_, I mean. Even in death, she was still the strangest little thing.

But that was enough to pique Carolara's interest. Narrowing her eyes, she swept past Aurnie, the rest of us trailing after her. She stalked across the garden to the far corner, beneath the massive spruce that grew there. And we all gasped as we caught sight of it.

The little sparrow was very much alive. It fluttered frantically, struggling to gain momentum—but there was a dark stain on the ground beneath. My stomach clenched as I instinctively knew that it was its blood.

"Well," Carolara said. "We have to help it."

"Should we go get the Master?" a girl asked, and Carolara snapped around.

"Don't be stupid, Felicity," she growled. "He won't care. And we'll just get a lecture on how we should have known how to handle it ourselves."

"I could try a healing spell. If we could at least—"

"Shut _up_, Aurnie," Carolara hissed. The other girl wisely fell quiet. She may have earned some favor, but she was not yet securely in the queen's good graces. "No—we'll just have to take care of it. We need a box to put it in. Somebody get their lunch basket." There was a murmur of conversation, and some girl volunteered, dashing off back across the garden.

"And we need to get it a blanket. Jeanne, take off your scarf."

"But my brother just gave it to me. It's from Summerset Isle, and it—" Jeanne tried to protest, but Carolara's icy tone cut her off.

"I _said_—take it off," she ordered though clenched teeth. Jeanne meekly obeyed, and Carolara continued. "What do birds even eat? We'll need to get it some water, too—does anyone have anything to put it in?"

The brainstorming continued, but I had knelt down beside the bird. It let a few faint cheeps—cries of pain and frustration, not a merry song. As I looked closer, I miserably realized nothing we could do for it would do it any good. Not a Summerset Isle silk scarf turned makeshift blanket, not a few crumbs of bread torn from Sylvia's sandwich, not even one of Aurnie's healing spells. Whatever had attacked it, it had put up a good fight—and lost an entire wing in the process.

I reached out to stroke its silken feathers, but it barely even noticed, its eyes glazed over in shock. I jumped as several drops of moisture spilled onto my hand—I hadn't even realized I was crying.

_It's too late for it._ The faint whisper drifted across my consciousness. _It can never be made whole. It will never take to the skies again—never raise its voice in song._

My vision blurred as the tears fell harder and faster. _Do it now,_ the voice crooned. _End its suffering._

A sob wracked through my body, and I reached out and gently took hold of it. _Set it free…_

"I'm sorry," I croaked. One quick twist, a faint crunch—and the bird went still in my hands. The fever faded from its eyes. The brief brush against my cheek may have been the breeze—or its spirit rising to join its feathered brothers and sisters in the sky.

"_What did you do?_" Carolara's voice suddenly lashed out. I set the bird's body down with shaking hands, and stumbled to my feet.

"I—I had t-to." I was really crying now, and my words broke with the sobs. "It was in so much pain, and its wing…w-we couldn't have…we couldn't …"

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Even through the sobs, I could feel Carolara's voice rising, and I froze. "You—you _killed_ it? Just like that?"

"I had to!" I sniffled, stifling back a sob. "It was in _pain_! We couldn't have helped it! Not even the Master can regrow limbs!"

"We were going to make a bed for it!" Carolara's face was turning crimson. "We even went and got an eggshell to put water in and everything!" Her eyes narrowed as she glowered down at me. "And you _ruined_ it."

There was an old, familiar rage welling up in me. The poor bird still lay by my feet, its mangled wing facing skyward—and Carolara was angry that she didn't get to treat it as a living doll?

_Insufferable little floozy!_ The inner voice welled up again, trembling with rage. _How dare she? How dare she!_

I could feel the tendons of my hand tightening, the muscles tensing along my forearm, up my bicep, through my shoulder. _Make her pay._

My fist smashed forward like a blast of lightning—and I punched Carolara square in the face. She let out a shriek, her head flying backward, and I saw a spurt of blood. But she recovered, and the fury welling up in her face matched my own. "How _dare_ you?" she roared, and then she hurtled forward, tackling me to the ground. And the fight was on.

I think the other girls were in a state of shock as we rolled around on the ground, ferociously exchanging blows. Faces were scratched, hair was pulled, and I think even teeth got involved in the mix. I was smaller, but scrappier, and in the end, I managed to wrestle Carolara into a headlock, punching her repeatedly as she wailed.

It was Aurnie, actually, who finally pulled me off of her, and several other girls managed to restrain Carolara as she rose to her feet and lunged for me again. She finally ran out of steam, slapping away several of the girls as they tried to help her straightened her skirts and smooth her hair. Once she had everything adjusted, she turned to me, eyes burning with malevolence. "_Gods,_ Antoinetta," she snarled, wiping at the blood trickling down her lip, "you are _such_ a freak."

She turned and stuck her bloodied nose in the air. "Ladies, we're leaving." And she set off across the garden. The rest of them followed, all stealing nervous glances in my direction as they went.

I had been unseated from my position as Carolara's lieutenant, I realized as I turned back to the poor, fallen bird. But I could hardly bring myself to care as I silently dug a grave for it. The other girls had gathered back by the fountain by the time I finished, but I knew better than to join them.

No one would even look at me as we gathered back inside to resume our lessons. But at the end of the day, I strode out of the building just as haughtily as Carolara. I should have been devastated, crying, groveling for forgiveness—but instead I was untouchable, filled with a burning sense of righteousness. That's the feeling, it would seem, when one takes the first step toward fulfilling her destiny.


End file.
